The Skeleton's Truth
by MintExpresso
Summary: Sometimes, the truth hurts.
1. For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Title:** The Skeleton's Truth  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** There's a lot of people who own Bones, when you think about it. Fox, Far Field Productions, Kathy Reichs... unfortunately, I didn't make the cut for that list. C'est la vie. Also, all the chapter titles are book names, and if I'd written any of those I wouldn't be posting here.  
**Notes: **Alright. For those of you who read _The Tempest_, this is in the same vein. A little angsty. This is going to focus on Tempe dealing with the loss of her parents. Reviewers are loved. A lot.

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Routine. It was a routine case, a routine day. Booth brought in a body, and she studied it, stripped the decay away, read the story in the bones. She wrote everything down on her clipboard, just like normal, took detailed notes and snapped pictures when necessary. She determined cause of death, age, height, had Hodgins help her out with time of death. Ange was starting on the facial reconstruction when Tempe slid the file to Booth.

_Routine. It was a normal day of school, one of the last days before Christmas break. She stepped off the bus with her backpack, the kind that slung over one shoulder, that she had begged so hard for even though her mother had said it would give her backaches. The front door was locked when she tried it, so she rummaged for her spare key._

She went into her office to eat her lunch. A sandwich, yogurt, and a Diet Coke stood waiting on the corner of her desk for her. She didn't have anything to do until Ange or Booth got back to her with a drawing or with some possible names, so she took her time and expected to be interrupted eventually. Forty five minutes later, she realized she hadn't been.

_She went into the kitchen to eat a snack, feeling a tad annoyed at her mother for not letting her know she would be working later. Grabbing a few pretzel rods from the pantry, she settled down with her math book to finish off the few problems she hadn't gotten to in class. She kept one ear open for the sound of the garage opening. She finished her math and the other bits of homework she had. Forty five minutes later, she realized her mother still wasn't home._

Tempe worked on some paperwork she'd been ignoring, but after an hour she began to wonder what was going on. She tossed her trash into the garbage can on the way out of her office, and then started towards Ange's office. At least if Booth wasn't there, she'd be able to ask about the facial reconstruction.

_Tempe settled down with a book and a blanket. An hour later, she started wondering what was up with her mom. She dialed the office where her mother worked, but the receptionist told her that no, Mrs. Brennan hadn't been in, she'd taken the day off to attend some sort of seminar with Mr. Brennan. Confused, Tempe went up to Russ's room to see if he knew what was up. When she asked, he shook his head and went back to reading his magazine._

Peering into her best friend's office, she saw with a start that Booth was there with Angela. They were looking intently at some papers spread out over Ange's desk, backs to the door. Booth turned slightly, and Tempe saw that his face was somber, even worried. He ran his hand through his hair in a stressed-out, bewildered sort of movement. She opened the door, and they both started guiltily.

_Peering out the front windows, she realized that it was going to be dark soon. Where on earth were her parents? Her father was usually home by now; he went into work early in the morning and came home around dinner time. She didn't know what to do, or who to call. Deciding that she was probably overreacting, Tempe made herself dinner and then stayed up late reading. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't banish or logic away._

"Why are you two so jumpy?" she asked, laughing nervously despite herself. Angela and Booth didn't smile back, but looked at each other uneasily and shifted subconsciously in front of the desk.

"Brenn, hon…" Angela trailed off. She had a note of pity in her voice, something that Tempe had gotten very good at detecting. The anthropologist was suddenly tired of whatever game they were trying to play, and there was something cold in the pit of her stomach.

"What are you guys looking at?" she demanded, pushing Booth aside. Ange snatched up her drawing before Tempe could see it, but Booth made no movement to grab the list of potential matches for the body.

_She woke up with her head on the book and the lights still on. A quick glance at the clock told her that it was four in the morning. Groaning, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the couch, wondering why no one had woken her up. Her parents would definitely be home from wherever they had been, she was certain, but she'd peek into their room just to be sure._

_"Tempe." Russell's voice startled her in the dark hallway._

_"You scared me," she accused, "Are Mom and Dad home?" It came out sounding more like 'momndad', some kind of slang worn in from overuse of the two words together._

_He didn't answer, just looked at her with a strange expression on her face._

_"What is it?" she questioned, a feeling of apprehension tightening her muscles._

The list wasn't too long; Tempe had found a fracture in the victim's right wrist that had helped narrow it down. She read to herself.

Lisa Arnold. Carrie Nelson. Elizabeth McKinney. Lydia Patterson. Faith Anderson.

Christine Brennan.

A feeling of cold dread swept through Tempe, and she fought the dizziness that coursed through her. She looked up.

"Let me see the sketch." Her voice was cold. Firm. Rational. Logical. All of those things she'd become. Angela wordlessly handed it over.

_A week. It didn't make any sense. Where? Why? When? Questions buzzed through Tempe's head constantly, giving her a headache and blurring her vision. If they were gone much longer, Russell told her in a hollow voice, Tempe would be sent into foster care. Russ was nineteen, too old to be a ward of the state. Too young to claim Temperance._

_Tempe didn't want to belong to the state. She wanted to belong to her parents. She wanted them back. She didn't want to listen to the voice in her head that said if they were alive somewhere they would have been back by now._

Temperance stared at herself. There were certain things wrong in the drawing, things that Ange couldn't have known, and a difference of years, but Tempe looked a good bit like her mother and it was obvious. She hadn't even realized how much.

Bile crept up her throat, and she put her hand to her mouth. Angela and Booth stared at her, with that damn sympathy on their face, that damn sympathy and that damn concern. She hated that expression, wanted to peel it off their faces. The office spun around her, and she gasped involuntarily and put her hand to the wall to steady herself. Booth stepped forwards, looking unsure of what to do.

No one ever knew what to do.

"I need some air," she said shakily, then turned and left the office, forcing herself to walk. Every time her heel hit the floor, she heard that little word vibrate in her ears. _Dead_. _Dead_. _Dead_. She started walking faster, and the chant sped up in her head. What did this mean about her father, then? She shouldn't be so surprised, she told herself. She had known this was highly probable.

But that was different.

Then, she realized she was walking feet away from the lab table, and the decomposing body that rested on top of it. She broke out into a run, fighting the tears that wanted to escape her eyes. She heard footsteps behind her, knew that Angela or Booth was walking behind her. Tempe couldn't bring herself to care. She pushed the front doors open and was immersed in the afternoon light; days were always bright and normal whenever you wished they wouldn't be, she knew. Leaning against the brick, she stared at nothing.

_They never came back._

_ -----_

AN: Loved it? Despised it? Too much angst? Not enough? Just right? Got a favorite line? Want to see this go somewhere in particular? Have something you'd like to point out? Want to send chocolate to my muse, who wishes to add that it prefers dark chocolate and no almonds? Tired of the questions?

Well, then drop me a line and let me know!


	2. Fathers and Sons

**Disclaimer**: Bones isn't mine. Fathers and Sons, by Ivan Turgenev, is also not mine.

**Very Long Note**: This took a very long time to get up, and I'm very sorry! I think I began this way too close to the airing of the finale, and I don't want to get into a speculative story that turns out to be wrong, and then find myself not wanting to finish because I know it's wrong. I was also very excited about seeing the preview for the finale when The Solider on the Grave aired, but then the tape I recorded it on ran out about five seconds before the teaser aired, so I wrote this chapter in front of the muted TV on Fox while hoping that they'd air a commercial for it so that I could get a feel for the episode and get a few details. No such luck!

Anyways, I went back to the drawing board and made a lot of changes to the plan of this story. It's going to be a lot more about Tempe dealing than about the case details or whatnot, and a lot of it will be about her as a young woman, as well. I hope you all enjoy it, and please drop me a line!

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Temperance gripped the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white as slowly let her foot up off of the brake. The car inched forwards slowly, and she bit her lower lip in worried concentration.

"Good, good. Try going around the parking lot in a circle."

Tempe nodded nervously, feeling queasy, and began her way around the empty lot, eyes constantly darting around to make sure no one came anywhere near her car. On her second time around, two girls rode their bikes across the far end of the parking lot. Tempe let out a surprised gasp and slammed her foot on the gas.

A laugh came from the passenger seat. "It's okay. You're nowhere near them. Go around again, and this time, use a little gas."

Nodding weakly, she slowly pressed her foot to the gas and circled around the lot again. She started gaining confidence, pressed her foot down lower, and loosened her grip on the wheel.

"Very good, you're getting the hang of it. Go around the other way now."

Half an hour later, Temperance was comfortably gliding around in figure eights. Mr. Brennan leaned forward and sighed. "Want to try going on the road now?"

"Do you think I'm ready?" Tempe asked, eyeing the quiet residential road suspiciously.

"Of course you are. We'll go around the neighborhood, not too far. Just keep your eyes on the road ahead of you, don't look at the cars coming towards you."

She nodded determinedly and set out onto the nearly empty street. Every once in a while Mr. Brennan would give her directions in a calm, soothing voice. It was the voice of a man who was in control, and Tempe found it comforting as she drove for the first time.

It happened when she was turning onto the last small street before a larger intersection. There was a metallic thunk and the sound of glass cracking, and slender spidery lines of white appeared in the corner of the windshield closest to Mr. Brennan. Tempe gasped and slammed on the breaks, but her father was suddenly a different man.

"Go! The gas, Temperance, damnit!" he commanded, and she did as she was told, heart hammering in her chest as she accelerated, turned sharply, and ran a stop sign. Her father was a livid red, then a ghostly white.

"Do you want to drive now?" Tempe asked weakly, afraid to add to the tension in the air.

"No. We'll get home faster if we don't have to get out and switch," he muttered, almost as if to himself.

They reached home a minute later, and Mr. Brennan instructed her to park in the garage. She stepped out, legs wobbly beneath her and feeling dizzy, and he told her to go inside as he shut the garage door.

A moment later, he entered the house, asked her if she was okay, and then picked up the phone and spent the rest of the night talking too softly to be heard with a dark look in his eyes.

-----

"Mrs. Wilson," Temperance began, hands clasped behind her back, "I need twenty four more hours of driving in order to get my license, and I have to go with a licensed driver over the age of 21 in order for it to be legal. Do you think you or Mr. Wilson could take me sometime?" she asked, loathing herself as she did. Driving was supposed to be the key to her freedom, not another thing that forced her to depend on someone she barely knew.

The older woman looked up from her magazine. "Of course, Temperance. But haven't you already been out driving?"

"My father took me once, but he… disappeared two weeks later," she replied, hating the hesitation that had crept into her voice.

"Oh, of course," A look of pity snaked onto Mrs. Wilson's face. "I'll have my husband take you out next week, dearie."

Tempe nodded, and then left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the study that doubled as her room.

-----

Tempe leaned back in the front seat of her sports car. It still had that faint new-car smell clinging to the seats. She turned her head and buried her face into the headrest and inhaled deeply. It always reminded her of her parents' cars when she smelled that rubbery chemical scent. They had changed cars often, as well as license plates. Tempe had never understood why, but her mother always laughed and said that her father was a great car lover, that the DMV kept getting their records messed up, that the transmission in this one was faulty or that the brakes in that one kept giving out.

Russ had asked her once, if she thought that it was strange how quickly their parents went through new cars. She had shrugged, what did she know about cars? He turned away from her with a strange expression on his face, and had simply shrugged when she asked him what was wrong. She didn't press it. They had formed a fragile alliance, now that they were both older. She listened to the music he did, got rides from him from time to time, and actually talked to him. Asking annoying questions would alienate him, she rationalized, and dropped the matter.

Well, now she knew why they went through cars so quickly, she thought bitterly. She had always regretted the fact that she had never gotten to know her parents as more than her parents.

But her parents were the kind of people she despised. What had they left her? Money that wasn't theirs to begin with. A million questions. No home to go to.

Even her name wasn't hers. Brennan. Half the people she knew called her Brennan. Even Angela, even her best friend, called her Brenn, because the first name her parents had given her wasn't exactly the most conventional, either. But at least it wasn't a stolen name. At least it wasn't a lie.

The press would have fun with this one, she thought. Dr. Temperance Brennan, acclaimed author, top forensic anthropologist, was the child of criminals. Paid for her schooling with money that came from God knows where. Had the name her parents had assumed to hide from the law.

And it was a name she couldn't simply change, couldn't simply shed like a snakeskin. It was printed across millions of books. It was at the top of too many research projects to count. It was scrawled across all of her diplomas.

It was the name she knew herself by.

She sighed and stepped out of the car. She had promised to call Booth, and if she didn't, she knew he would be worried. He was being so… there. That was what she really needed, she knew. Someone to be there, to not disappear, to not slip off into the West, to not fight and leave.

She dialed his number.

----

AN: Loved it? Hated it? Excited for the finale? Leave a note!


	3. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything, so for all those of you hoping to find Booth sitting under your tree on Christmas morning, I'm not the one to ask. I might be able to find some mistletoe, though…

**Notes:** I did tell you all that this would be up Saturday or Sunday. Of course, I meant _last_ Saturday or Sunday… whoops! Sorry for the very long delay. There are two more chapters planned after this, and if you can't tell, it's basically a collection of snapshots with a common theme. Hopefully you'll enjoy it; but let me know either way!

Also, a very big thanks to Atrosie, my wonderful beta reader for this story, without whom I would have made many very stupid mistakes, like getting Christine Brennan's name wrong in the first chapter, as well as lots of other feedback.

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_**Chapter 3- Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry**_

Tempe lay on her bed, the unfamiliar scent of the room around her closing in and suffocating her. All houses had their own scents, and this one smelled like Lysol and pine wood. She felt as if the air was tainted, as if the only way she could fill her burning lungs was if she could breathe in the smell of her mother's candles, too much of Russ' cologne, her father's aftershave.

It was a cool night, but Tempe rose and opened the window anyways, breathing in the sweet scent of pear blossoms on the breeze even as goose bumps rose on her arms.

Sixteen, she thought, as she looked up and tried to find a star in the cloudy sky. Tomorrow she would be sixteen; in one hour and thirty-six minutes, if she cared to be precise. It was an age of cultural significance, she knew, and even though her head told her it was just another day, her imaginative heart longed for some sort of ritual to mark the event.

Her parents had always promised that she would have a party when she turned sixteen. Sweet sixteen, her mother had always called it, as she told her Temperance to slow down a bit, and what business did she think she had, getting so old? Tempe would roll her eyes and grin, and then come back with a comment about how _she_ wasn't the one getting _old_.

Tempe got up again, feeling restless, and flicked the radio on, finding a station that Russ had liked before flopping back down on her bed. Normally she didn't listen to popular music, but she had a strange desire to be typical for once. To listen to normal music, to not care so much about her chemistry exam on Wednesday, to know what everyone was talking about in the cafeteria while she was in the library. To be normal in more ways than that- but she forced her mind away from those things and focused on the music playing softly.

_Life is a mystery,  
Everyone must stand alone,  
I hear you call my name and it feels like… home._

She was on her feet in an instant, and her palm slammed down on the stereo's power switch. Her head yelled at her for being irrational, but the pain searing through her hand drowned it out. Drawing it back as if she had burned it, she gasped and stared at it for a moment. A little redness, but that was all.

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she hated herself for them, especially because they had nothing to do with her hand.

The only light in the room came from the streetlamp outside, which illuminated everything with a pale wash of yellow. Tempe turned and faced the mirror, then took a step forwards. She looked the same as she had before Christmas. Suddenly, she wanted to smash that mirror, that lying pane of moonlight that told her nothing had changed, that she could open her eyes and everything would be right again. So many people had lied to her lately.

Foster care will be easier for you.

You'll fit in with the kids at your new school.

We'll let you know what's happening with the investigation.

They'll be back, you'll see.

That desire to break her image into a million pieces washed over her again, and she stepped backwards. It was as if she were frightened that she really would if she didn't keep herself in total control. Part of her yelled that it would be so easy, that she should do it for no other reason other than the fact that she could. She picked up the encyclopedia from her end table, held it in front of her. She wouldn't do it, she knew.

She would never do anything.

Throwing the encyclopedia on the ground, she jumped onto her bed and hugged her knees, breathing heavily with her eyes wide open. Crazy. She had to be crazy, she thought, to think of putting books through mirrors that didn't belong to her. No, not crazy, maybe, but she felt as if she were losing control in so many places, and she didn't want to become impulsive and let another piece of who she was slip through her fingers.

Who was she?

----

Tempe sat on her bed, staring at the finished manuscript in front of her. She was sending it to her editor the next day. Her birthday. Even though she knew it was just another day, it felt right to start the road to getting it published on the day she turned another year older.

She still didn't have a title, but her editor would help her get that sorted out, anyway. Flipping the first page back, she stared down at the dedication she had typed out. It had been written after she had returned from New Orleans, but every time she saw her partner the dedication felt right. Sure, it had been a little awkward letting David read a manuscript dedicated to her partner, and she had no clue how Booth would react, but she'd deal with that when the book was published. He'd probably grin at her and let her know he was right about being in it.

She wondered just how much he was in it. Lately, she had been consciously going out of her way to make her Andy Lister different from Booth, because she had been unconsciously drifting towards making them one and the same.

Sighing, Tempe leaned back against her pillows. Another book, with 'Temperance Brennan' labeled in big letters across the bottom, right below whatever the hell her title would be.

Fifty-two minutes till tomorrow. Mentally, she kicked herself for the countdown and concentrated on the words coming from the stereo in her living room.

_You've got to get yourself together, you got stuck in a moment__  
And you can't get out of it._

She snorted at the irony. It was true; she had been living in the past, and she couldn't seem to pull herself out of that rut. Booth's words from the farm came back to her- "I know who you are".

Maybe that was the important part, she thought. Maybe the legality of her name, who her parents had been, didn't make her who she was at all.

Who was she, anyway? At the best of times she felt like she had herself all figured out, but lately she was a stranger in her own head.

For some reason, that didn't seem so bad when she remembered that she wasn't a stranger to him.

-----

**AN**: Loved it? Hated it? Somewhere in between? Reviews are loved, especially if you tell me why!


	4. A Separate Peace

**Disclaimer**: If you recognize it, it's not mine.  
**Author's Note**: I know there is no excuse for taking such an absurdly long time to update, so I won't even try to defend myself.

...okay, but seriously, I wrote the chapter! My laptop died and I had to re-write it! It would have been done weeks ago!

All lame excuses aside, I hope you enjoy this next chapter. It's the second-to-last, and the last chapter will be up shortly. Really.

**_A Separate Peace_**

A job, they asked, why would you want a job, dear? Do you need us to give you more spending money?

_No, no, no,_ she thought inside, but simply bit her lip on the outside. She couldn't make them understand that she didn't want them to give her any 'spending money', or that she'd rather stay home on a Friday night than ask her foster parents for money. She couldn't make them understand that she neededa distraction, or that she needed a place to get away to.

And since she couldn't make them understand that, she pulled the ace out of her sleeve and used the only excuse she knew no one would argue with.

"It's just that my parents always said I could start working when I turned sixteen."

Her parents. She loathed herself for using their absence to get her way, but it really was too easy. Teachers would offer to push back deadlines for her, despite her repeated refusals; the homework was never that hard anyway. Her foster parents' children waited on Mother's Day to give their cards until she was asleep. Her friends always stopped and looked guilty whenever they started complaining about their parents.

So it didn't surprise Temperance when her foster parents agreed, and a week later, she was scooping ice cream for minimum wage.

-----

Your job, the reporters asked, why do you put in such long hours, Dr. Brennan? They'd chuckle.Do you need to make some pocket change, what with your books and your prestigious position?

No, no, no, she thought inside, and she told them so. She loved her job, she said, and they nodded and scribbled down her words. It was fascinating. She was working on some very interesting cases. She had a student to attend to. She was helping out the FBI on the side, too.

And since they understood that and were satisfied, she saw no need to tell them what really drove her.

Someone else was waiting.

Her parents. The dead didn't give her looks of pity and compassion. They grinned up at her, as if to say, "Finally, someone who will listen to what we whisper. Someone who can read the strange language engraved in us and give us a name."

The bitter irony was not lost on Temperance. Her work gave her mother back her name, while her mother's work had erased her own.

-----

Butter Pecan, Peppermint, Mint Chip, Mocha Swirl, Vanilla Bean, Chocolate Moose, Turtle Truffle. She recited the names over and over again in her head even as she wiped hot fudge from her fingers onto her apron.

She got off work at six, and she knew the bookstore closed at ten. Four hours to lose herself in the pages of someone else's life. Vaguely, she wondered if the store's owner minded that she only read and never bought, but she'd make up for that when she got her first paycheck.

Swirling vanilla soft serve onto a sugar cone, she glanced at the clock. Ten more minutes.

"Here you go, sir. Have a nice day," she said mechanically as she handed the treat out. After a quick glance at the next order's ticket, she reached for a waffle cone, but instead touched a warm hand.

She looked up, startled, into the face of her boss, Laura, who was smirking at her in a bemused way.

"Go ahead and get out of here, Temperance," she said, glancing at the clock. "We're good for now."

Tempe nodded gratefully, smiling, and then turned on her heel as fast as she could to grab her bag and go. On her way out the door she whipped her hair out of the ponytail it had been tied back in for the past few hours, then shook her head and ran her fingers through the tangled mess. She knew she smelled like milk and chocolate, but there were, she decided, worse scents to wear, and she headed straight towards the bookstore.

-----

It had been a long day. A very, very long day.

Tempe sighed in exasperation as she banged the door to her apartment shut with more force than was strictly necessary. After flinging her bag onto the couch, she wearily trod into the kitchen, filled her favorite mug with water, and put it in the microwave. While her water heated, she entered her bedroom and gratefully took off the blouse that had turned out to be much too warm and the skirt that had kept blowing up in the wind. Angela had laughed as her friend smoothed it back down, watching an embarrassed flush rise in her cheeks, and the artist had proclaimed it a 'Marilyn Monroe moment', though Tempe hadn't been quite sure what that meant.

In any case, the soft material of her favorite pajamas felt good on her skin, and she took her hair out of the ponytail that had held it back all day. She ran a brush through it, then turned to grin at herself in the mirror. What she needed now was a good book.

-----

Tempe walked quickly through the rows of books in the store, flitting from shelf to shelf distractedly. Finally, a yellow-covered book caught her eye, with the face of a man staring straight at her. No, half a face; the other half was his skull.

Intrigued, she took a step closer. 'Witnesses from the Grave' proclaimed the cover, in bold, red letters. A black box at the top read, 'The Stories Bones Tell'. She picked it up and flipped it to the back, glancing over the summary even as she walked towards a table.

-----

Her fingers lingered over a well-worn book that had survived many moves and a lot of abuse. She had read it so many times she had parts memorized. As the microwave timer went off, she picked it off the shelf and went to retrieve her hot water.

Opening her pantry, she reached for a tea bag, then changed her mind and grabbed the hot chocolate mix. Two spoonfuls and ten minutes later, she was sipping her cocoa and flipping through the book lovingly, re-aquatinting herself with it, as she would an old friend.

-----

It was getting late, and Tempe had been reading about this man, Clyde Snow, and his science, forensic anthropology, for hours. It was fascinating, she thought, as she reluctantly reshelved it. The way he could identify people. Find them. Return them to their families. Give them closure.

Find out who had killed them, even, she thought, her grip tightening on her purse as she ran all the way home.

-----

It was an old book. The science described in its pages was outdated, and had been replaced by newer techniques- some of which she had helped develop herself. Glancing at the clock and noting how late it was, she rinsed out the snowflake mug and brought the book with her into her bedroom.

She had become sidetracked for a while, she knew, identifying more Egyptian princesses and medieval crusaders than nameless bones found in this century. It was funny, she thought, setting the book on her nightstand and snuggling underneath the covers of her bed, how it had taken an FBI agent to remind her why she had chosen her field in the first place. She'd have to remember to thank him for that.

AN: Reviewers are probably the coolest people. Ever.


	5. Pride and Prejudice

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Notes: Oh, dear. Life has been very busy ever since the publishing of the last chapter, and I apologize (once more) for the lateness of this. I've been on a bit of a hiatus, and probably will be for a while. It's likely that no one remembers this… but I couldn't leave it unfinished!

There are some spoilers for the Girl with the Curl in this last one… but nothing more than could be gleaned from TV Guide, as I haven't seen it either! This story started out as speculation, and it'll end on the same note. I hope you enjoy it!

-----

Brennan stared down at the ice cream wrapper. It was funny, how much information could come from something so insignificant. How many of these same brightly-colored wrappers had she seen the summer she had scooped ice cream? Too many. She could almost taste the flavor on her tongue. It wasn't as sweet as she thought she had remembered.

She straightened up and tried to hold in the sigh that threatened to escape her. Booth looked distinctly uncomfortable… the same way he had looked throughout the entire case.

In the car (they almost never drove separately- why was that?) they were silent until Booth couldn't contain his disgust any longer. Tempe had known that would happen. People liked to fill the silences… hadn't he been the one to tell her that?

"That kid… the world gives some kids hell, Bones." He was using that authoritative, world-weary voice. She didn't know why she found it so grating. "She wasn't even loved for who she was. She was… admired. For what she looked like, how she acted. That's just not right, to love a kid like that." He paused, and she almost resented the fact that he always talked to her about kids as if she didn't know the slightest detail about them. She almost did, but she couldn't.

There was a moment's pause. "No, you shouldn't." She didn't know what else to say. Of course you shouldn't live a kid like that. You should love them because of who they are, she concluded, not because of things like appearance, actions, obligations. Pity.

They didn't talk the rest of the way. She was glad he seem didn't think it was awkward.

Façades. All those little pageant girls had created identities as fake as her mother's… as fake as her own. She doubted they knew what they were doing. They just wanted to be beautiful. Her thoughts flashed back to the L.A. call girls. What did it matter, to be easy on the eyes? To be beautiful?

Was she beautiful?

She'd been told she was, by men, by a few people who wanted her to model for them. She couldn't see it, though, when she looked in the mirror. She saw a dizzying number of people calling to her, telling her she needed to help them, give them a name, give them a face. Daunting, yes, but surely more gratifying than beauty, wasn't it?

. It wasn't that she didn't care about her appearance; she always tried to make sure her makeup, hair, and clothing were neat, clean, and culturally suitable. If she changed that, would everything in her life really be any different?

No, you didn't need to alter your appearance to gain love. Love wasn't like that. It surprised you, jumped out at you, found you in places you didn't expect. You couldn't do anything to gain love- you would never be beautiful enough, smart enough, work hard enough, get good enough grades or know the right people. You could never be enough to make someone love you.

But you could certainly try.

She cast a scornful eye at the mascara in her hand. Going to Sid's with Booth did not require such time and effort. What did she expect to happen if her lashes looked a little longer, her lips a little fuller, her hips… what did she expect? Booth seemed to like her well enough. He appreciated her intelligence; he recognized all the things about her that she prided herself on. Mascara, she thought, wouldn't change a thing. It was just another layer to hide behind.

Life was easier if people thought they knew you, though. It was easier if they saw mascara, lipstick, dazzle. Life was easier if you thought you knew yourself.

That was why Joy Keenan would remain Temperance Brennan. Too much had gone into the charade. Going back to the truth would be impossible.

AN: And that's the end! Drop a line if you liked/didn't like/feel neutral towards this last chapter.


End file.
